Let Go
by SealingWax
Summary: What if Katniss had been just a little closer when the bombs went off? A collection of one-shots exploring what would have happened. Prim's POV, Mockingjay spoilers, rated T just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

It all happens so fast.

"Go!" my superiors yell as we pour onto the scene. "Go, go, GO!"

Running toward President Snow's mansion, I should be terrified, but I'm not. When the bombs went off, I slipped into that place in my mind where nothing matters except the patient. And there are many, many patients.

Of course, there are a lot of medics, too, and most of the wounded are already being treated. I scan the area for an unattended victim. My eyes find a girl, about six or seven years old, and I run for her. Upon reaching her, I analyze her injuries. Not too bad. She'll live.

However, it's obvious from her horrified cries that she's traumatized. _Of course, _I remind myself. _She's from a different world_. But whether she's from the Capitol or the districts, she's still only a little girl. I whip off my coat and throw it over her so that she can't see the blood; it's the least I can do. But now I really do have to get going; there are kids suffering all around me, kids who desperately need my attention.

I jump to my feet, turn around, and instantly collide with someone.

Without looking at the person, I automatically apologize and start to leave, but the person's hand shoots out and grabs my shoulder. A Peacekeeper! I whirl to shove my enemy away, but falter. It's not a Peacekeeper. Despite the strange clothing, it's not even a Capitol citizen. I am looking up into the face of my older sister.

"Katniss?" I say.

She opens her mouth to reply, but then we both sense something and look up. A horrible chill runs through me. The hovercraft is back. And as we watch, its doors slide open– more silver parachutes start to fall– not bombs, but still burning– so if one were to catch us–

Close to panic, I meet Katniss's gaze. Intense fear and blazing determination war in her eyes. She glances skyward once more, and gasps. I quickly follow her gaze; one of the parachutes is headed straight for me! It's too close; there's no time to dodge it. All I can do, I realize, is tell Katniss to run.

But before I've even opened my mouth, she leaps forward and tackles me, forcing me to the ground. It happens too quickly for me to protest. Despite being only a couple inches taller than me, Katniss presses her body down so that I'm pinned to the ground and shielded on all sides.

And then the parachute must have found its target, because my sister tenses up, and I hear a sound I will never forget: her scream of agony.

I feel the searing heat for just one moment before Katniss jumps up off of me. She is on fire, everything is on fire: her clothes, her hair, even her face! She is shrieking, her voice reaching a volume I have only heard once from her before: when Peeta nearly died in the Quarter Quell. I scream. _What can I do? What can I do?_ I rummage through my kit. No water. No fire blanket.

My sister is burning alive, and I cannot save her.

Katniss has been running without direction, blazing on as she does so, and as I look back up at her, she falls to the ground and curls up in a fiery ball, her wails falling silent.

_This can't be happening!_

In my desperation, I throw myself over Katniss, extinguishing most of the flames. Their remainder, I pat away with my hands; there's enough adrenaline in my bloodstream that I don't feel the pain. I turn my sister so that she is lying on her back. Her hair has been burnt away, right down to her scalp, and every inch of her body looks like it has been roasted. In some areas, the skin has been rendered white and bloodless, indicating third-degree burns. This is not a good sign, not a good sign at all.

I ransack my medical kit one more time, searching for burn medicine– morphling–anything that will help. But before I've finished looking, Katniss's red and blistering hand slowly inches up and rests on my arm.

"Stop," she rasps.

I try to keep my tears from splashing onto her scorched skin. "I can't."

"Prim, stop," she repeats weakly.

She doesn't know what she's saying, right? She's delirious, right? My hand finds the burn medicine of its own accord, and I dab the mixture onto my sister's face, sobbing now, the tears falling where they may. But she doesn't wince. Instead, her fingers wrap around mine.

"Please stop," she murmurs, with finality and a great amount of difficulty. "No use."

"No, Katniss." Tears race each other down my cheeks. "No. You can't go."

She draws in a shuddering breath. "Prim..."

_ No._

Her voice is barely a whisper now. "Let go."

_ No._

The hand in mine tightens its grip once, and then falls limp.

_ NO!_

Frozen in shock, I sit beside my sister's body.

And all around me, children die.


	2. Chapter 2

Everyone reacts differently.

Coin makes Katniss into a martyr for the cause, plastering her face up everywhere with some rallying catchphrase stamped across it. Plutarch walks around talking about what a tragedy it is to lose a girl with so much potential in the world of entertainment. I avoid them both.

My mother buries herself in her work. Haymitch dives into a bottle and doesn't resurface. The prep team cries… a lot. I avoid them all.

When I came back afterward, I didn't even have to say anything. Just one look, and Peeta had already read it on my face. The most horrible expression appeared on his face for a fleeting moment, and then he turned on his heel and vanished into his compartment, and, as far as I know, he hasn't come out since.

After they told Gale, he stopped hunting. And sleeping. And smiling.

And neither of them has said a word to me.

It's actually better this way, I think. If I talk to anyone else who loved her, I'll start crying. And once I start crying again, I'll never stop.

So I sit in my room. I ignore those who rap their knuckles on my door and call my name in loud voices. I ignore the food that they send up. And, somehow, I manage to ignore my heartache, too. It's all I can do to stare out the window, run an absentminded hand over Buttercup's fur, and try hard not to feel.

What time is it? What day is it? I don't have any idea. Everyone leaves me alone. Only my grief remains, burning as hot and as bright as the merciless sun.

Just like Katniss did before she died.

The girl on fire.

I'm just starting to accept that I'll be sitting here forever when one day, someone taps on my door. This time, the knock isn't impatient or commanding like the others; the sound is quiet. Tentative. And I know who my visitor is.

I get up to let Peeta in.

As I lie down on my bunk, Buttercup leaps up next to me, and Peeta sits down at the foot of the bed. We don't speak. Peeta pulls his knees up to his chest and stares at the floor, and I shift to face the cold gray wall. Even Buttercup's ceaselessly twitching tail falls still. The three of us are motionless for what seems like hours.

But then Buttercup stretches and yawns, and, if only slightly, the silence is broken. I am on my back again, staring up at the ceiling. Peeta lifts his head and turns his face toward me. When he speaks, it is calmly. "It's been two months. Did you know that?"

I don't respond.

"Prim," he says quietly.

I can't remember the last time I spoke. I never had a reason to. No one who tried to listen would possibly understand. Except, maybe, for the boy sitting in front of me now. He is a baker's son. He is an artist. He is one of the only people who loved Katniss as much as I did. So after a minute or two, I give him what is possibly my first word since my sister died.

"No."

To no one's surprise, my voice cracks.

He sighs. "Me neither. Not until recently."

We don't say anything for a while. Then, out of the blue, he asks: "Do you miss her?"

I sit up so fast that I get dizzy. "What kind of question is that?" I snap. It hurts to talk. My voice is rough from lack of use. My words burn my throat as they pass. "Of course I–"

He turns around so fast that his neck audibly cracks, but he pays it no mind. "Prim! Do you miss her?" he demands.

I'm silent. Waiting.

All of the anger falls off of Peeta's face, leaving only anguish behind. "Does it feel… like... your heart has been ripped out of your chest? Like... you'll never really be whole anymore? Like… you can't imagine how you could possibly go on?"

I bite my lip. His descriptions have hit home, stirring up emotions I'd rather not think about.

The passion behind his speech pulls him to his feet. "Prim, is it as though you'll never laugh again? Like all the good things in life have been taken away? Like no one has the right to smile, like the sun has no right to shine?"

Tears start to flow, but I don't bother to wipe my eyes. Peeta takes this as agreement.

"It's the same for me!" he exclaims. "It's the same for your mother! For Haymitch! For Johanna!" He pauses. "For Gale." He falls silent for a moment, but picks himself back up almost at once.

When Peeta speaks her name, his voice is so full of pain that it makes me wince to hear it. "Katniss..." He heaves a great sigh. "Katniss is... gone. We have to accept that. But, Prim, please understand what she fought for is still here. Everyone who fought with her is still here! I'm still here. _You're_ still here." Peeta's eyes are burning bright blue. It's hard to look away. He begins to pace the length of the room. "So the question is: what do we do now? Are we going to sit here and feel sorry for ourselves? Or are we going to finish this?"

I'm not sure if he's trying to convince me… or himself.

Abruptly, Peeta turns back to me and drops to one knee so that we are face-to-face.

"Did she die in vain, Prim?" he asks quietly. He looks down at the floor and inhales sharply before lifting his gaze back to me. "Did Katniss Everdeen give her life for nothing?"

I see my own grief reflected in the crease in his forehead, in the bags underneath his eyes, in the way his mouth turns down at the corners, and this gives me the strength to reply, "No, Peeta."

I take a deep breath, knowing that I am about to put into words something that I know to be true. It has been the source of my guilt these past two months, but now, maybe, it can be the source of my resolve instead. I look into Peeta's eyes. They're on fire. Like hers.

"She gave her life for _me_."


End file.
